The slaves of Freetown

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I take my plate and head for the sink full of stained saucepans. I clean each of the utensils, dishes, and cups, avoiding another potential trap. These half-orders uttered by the Masters, one has to learn to decipher them. By the time I finish, Mistress Freeman comes back to the kitchen.

"What's taking you so long?"

"I am done, sorry."

She sighs, seeing the stack of pans in the drip tray.

"All right, let's go."

Her crutch preceding her, Mistress Freeman limps up to the library.

"Argh, I forgot my computer in my room. I don't know why my dad makes such a big deal out of us working in the library. It would be so much easier to be in my room; I have all of my sources there."

"Do you want me to go get it?"

"Please. My room is..."

I follow her instructions. I assume... I think that my Mistress's room is a reflection of her personality: quite luminous, energetic. I allow myself this judgment because this little trip aims to teach me more about her. I decided this morning to pull myself together; I will be an exemplary slave. All this agitation that I get lost in does not help us; on the contrary, it is a threat, given our delicate situation.

Like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom is all white, but the furniture's arrangement creates a much more intimate atmosphere. I spot the computer on the bed and quickly leave the room.

"Put it here and get settled."

She unlocks the screen, which opens onto the image of some sort of manifestation. At its head, two familiar faces. I have certainly seen this picture before, in Mohamed's office. The 1960s marches were among the largest protest processions which he ever attended, while he was still very active in the FreeRush movement. When his beliefs were still aligned with that of the ideology.

"It was historic, so many people, slaves, and American citizens, fighting for Human Rights. My parents, leading the procession, did a fantastic job," Mistress Freeman says, showing the two faces that stand out at the front of the demonstration. "I had used these other images, a little less famous for the presentation I had to give back to my preceptor," she adds by scrolling through some photos.

My father had occasionally told me about the benefactors Agatha and James Freeman, whose names are passed over when "popular charity" gives us clothes, food, and books. Companions in misfortune at first, they were more vehement than him at the crucial moment, which partly explains their difference in circumstances. It seems that they knew my biological parents through Mohamed. That ... That must be the reason he sent me here.

"Are you an Activist?" I ask faintly.

"I won't call myself "Activist," that would be pretending to a role that I don't play. I never took part in any demonstration, in any debate. I never even went to Freetown."

"Not even with your parents?" I try again, encouraging myself.

"You know, they've recently somewhat stepped away from activism and the Freetown leadership. The situation is quite difficult for us at this moment, and they aren't very enthusiastic when they see me shouting on all the roofs that we must abolish slavery. They realize that even though they have worked hard... they know they only got there because society allowed them to. My father just wanted to be encouraging earlier when he told you about... Anyway, they don't want to "bite the hand that feeds them," as he says. So, they categorically refuse to see me getting closer to the Activists."

Her fingers fly over the keyboard, and she opens a Facebook page leading to a link on YouTube. The banner represents the BLM movement's symbol, the raised fist, merged with the one's of FreeRush, simply the acronym of the slaves.

"This is my channel. I download videos, documents honoring all those who fought to free the slaves of the past, those before BC19, denigrated for their skin color, for example. I also pay tribute to all those who are now fighting to free modern slaves. I fight in my own way. I guess..."

"Why did you agree to become my Mistress then?" I interrupt her, confused.

My question makes her uncomfortable. It is unfair, I admit.

"I wanted to refuse, really. But I must confess that I lacked guts. My parents told me about the sanctions if I refused to perform my civic duty, they talked about their image and... I got scared. I'm so ashamed that... I'm going to avoid my friends all week... They've always known my strict positions on... that."

Making the segregationist service a civic act has benefited the supporters of slavery. Thus making everyone guilty, every member of society has their hands dirty. The punishment? Anyone who refuses to take care of their assigned slave has only to take their place. By exchanging fates with them, the Masters, even the Activists, understand that nothing is being solved, that we are not moving forward. I only know one person who has never been afraid of this punishment. He now lives like the rest of us. He is still criticized today for this choice, which seems to be stupidity, extremism.

"That's why you try to treat me well. Because you feel guilty."

"No! I treat you like I would treat anyone else. Because you're my equal, that's all," she stammers.

I am hardly touched by those words that any compassionate Activist or Master articulates. Nevertheless, in her look, in her voice's tone, there is a sincerity that upsets me. I feel the receptacle of my emotions overflow. I squirm in the chair, my fists clenched.

"My mother told me who your parents were... what they did and why you are Mohamed's son today..."

"It was inappropriate from me, Mistress, to ask you those questions, but I prefer not to talk about..."

"I'm sorry! It's just that you took me by surprise!"

"I-I... I do not understand what you expect from me, Mistress."

"Stop calling me..."

Her expression softens.

"I thought I was a coward; then, I assumed that I needed to make this opportunity a chance. And for that, I'll need you."

That is more like the Masters that I know.

"At the moment, clandestine emigration by sea is a scourge that kills more slaves than the lack of hygiene in the Freetowns or the violence of the Masters. I would like to make a concise documentary, my first documentary, to discuss this phenomenon and the possible alternatives. During my research, as a sign, I was anonymously contacted by an alleged member... or rather, I sought to get in touch with FreeRush."

I am not listening to her anymore; I stare at her, smug. She then clears her face from her hair. The light in her eyes, very animated, dances vigorously. Her lips move in rhythm, and her chest, on which falls a small pendant, also rises in parallel to the flow of her words. I focused on this rhythm to match my breathing. My hands start to shake, and I slip from the chair. Mistress Freeman leans over me, holding my neck.

"Kanoa, listen to me."

"Ho-Jin... I need my brother. Ho-Jin," I gasp.

"I can feel you, my brother; I can hear you, Kanoa. Breathe and talk to me."

"I feel you, my sister. I welcome your fear, your anguish."